Thanks, Neighbors

Nothing like coming out onto your front steps to find a sopping wet pair of women’s underpants crumpled on the sidewalk.  Nothing like that as a greeting to your home for whoever stops by.

Okay, I should clarify that I’m not a neat freak.  I live next to a street, and sometimes chip bags and Wendy’s bags and Wendy’s bags from the OTHER Wendy’s across town will accumulate by my door.  It’s cool, I get it.

However, a pair of underpants is a bit much.

First of all, between the crumpled appearance and the rain, my front steps look like the kind of scene that Ice-T would kneel next to and say something about how it is on the streets while wearing an ill-fitting trenchcoat.  If you ever want to feel like you’re standing in a crime scene, it turns out that all you need is women’s underpants and some rain.

Secondly, I’m a big believer in first impressions.  When people walk into my home I would prefer they feel comfortable, at ease.  Maybe not exactly like they may be tackled by the police and aggressively questioned at any moment.

Now, as someone who tries to think the best of people, I’m going to assume that these were accidentally dropped while someone was headed to the laundry room.  Which happens.  Just the other night I was fishing behind the dryer with a pair of salad tongs to retrieve an errant sock, so I can relate.  But come on.  If I can use kitchen utensils to do that, you could certainly bend down a little and pick up these.

Think about my mom for a second.  Imagine my mom coming over to my place.  She probably already feels a slight pang of disappointment when she sees how her son is living.  Probably wishes she had somehow motivated me to be more career aggressive.  So now imagine that on top of her thinking, Oh, good.  Pair of soaked underpants just sitting in the walking path.  What a good life my son has built for himself.

I guess I could remove them myself.  I feel like these are expensive-ish.  And I don’t want to just invite myself to touch someone else’s underpants.  Walking with them in my hand would be the most 10 intense seconds of my life.  Me?  Nothing.  Just disposing of a suspicious undergarment.  No big thing, right my man?

So if you could pick them up, dude, that would be rad.